Out of the Woods
by previouslyjade
Summary: Before the Fellowship of the Ring, there were five hobbits - Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin and Fatty - before that, there were two cousins, Frodo and Merry and their eccentric uncle Bilbo. These are their adventures. Pre-LOTR
1. The River in the Moonlight

**Chapter 1. The River in the Moonlight**

_Disclaimer: There are two main reasons why I can't possibly be Professor Tolkien. One, if I were, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction. Two, my long and illustrious career (I wish!) would have long since been cut short by the grave. So…I don't own LOTR, so don't sue!_

_A/N. I realize this is a very short first chapter, but they do get longer! Enjoy!_

The moon glittered brightly on the Baranduin, and lit up the dark, sorrow-filled eyes of the young hobbit standing on its banks with a liquid fire. It had been a month since the bereaved twelve-year-old had come to live at Brandy Hall, a whole month since his parents had drowned in this very river. Frodo wondered if he'd ever get used to life without them.

Not that life at Brandy Hall was that bad by a long shot. His grandfather Gorbadoc, though so stout and heavy that to submit to his embrace was to incur mortal peril, was kind enough, and his numerous aunts warm and motherly. As for cousins, there were none near his own age save for one, Rosalcia, who was five. There, Frodo had his freedom, and a never-ceasing supply of excellent food, and he would have been well on the way to being as stout as old Gorbadoc had not grief coupled with a fast metabolism had its effect on him.

Though the facts of the case were never known, it was rumoured that it had been the sumptuous dinners at Brandy Hall that had (indirectly) been Drogo and Primula's downfall. The husband and wife had been staying at Brandy Hall for their wedding anniversary and had gone out boating on the river in the moonlight. The boat had overturned, and Drogo and Primula had drowned. People said, rather unkindly, that it had been Drogo's weight that sunk the boat.

"And so what?" spat Frodo angrily, when Rosalcia had innocently retold the rumour to him earlier that day. His vehemence took the hobbit-child by surprise, and she began to cry. Frodo, who at that moment would have dearly loved to punch someone or something in the face, stared at her for a few silent seconds before turning and running hell-for-leather down to the river. There he stayed, while afternoon turned to evening and evening to night, his anger ebbing away bit by bit, to be replaced by almost uncontrollable grief.

He wanted to scream up at the silver moon, whose brightness seemed to be mocking him, his anger and his confusion. But all he could do was stand there, mute, dry-eyed. At last, exhausted, he curled up on the bank and slept.

The moon above him shone down as bright and unblinking as ever as Frodo struggled up the endless flight of stairs. Dimly, he wondered what on earth the stairs had to do with anything, but they must have been important, for he kept climbing.

He became aware of a noise in his ears, like the lapping of the Brandywine against its banks, only more distant, and amplified into a great roar. His hair was whipping about his head, and above him, unreachable, a tall, white tower.

He struggled on, but then a dark shape flew across the moon, and there came a high, thin wail. In terror, he felt himself falling.

Awareness came back slowly. In that dim place between sleep and waking, he thought he saw an ageless face framed by golden hair bending over him, holding up a crystal filled with light in one hand, but then he woke completely to find himself in his room in Brandy Hall, and his old grandfather was trying and failing to bend over him while he and the aunts kept up a constant refrain of "so worried…couldn't find you…thank heavens you're safe! ... We thought something had…."

The first rays of dawn were already peeping through the windows.

_A/N. I'd love to know what you think! Review and tell me if it's good, mediocre, or if Tolkien would be turning in his grave – and if so, tell me how to improve. The next chapter will be longer. _


	2. Boats on the Brandywine

2. Boats on the Brandywine

_Disclaimer: I don't own LOTR and I'm not J.R.R. Tolkien. Happy? (I should mention that Rosalcia and Hamer are my own invention, but not Hamer's uncle, whom we will meet later, and who is mentioned in _The Hobbit) _I think I've also borrowed this chapter title from somewhere in LOTR but am too lazy to look it up…._

_A/N. I thought I'd post another chapter, as the first chapter was so short, just to get the ball rolling (Did that metaphor make sense?). _

Merry couldn't remember a time at Brandy Hall when Cousin Frodo hadn't been there too. His earliest memories were of times with Frodo. Frodo laughing; Frodo angry (though never with him); Frodo winking as he produced a handful of pilfered mushrooms from his tattered pockets; Frodo, a few weeks after that, tearing back to Brandy Hall as if all the goblins of the Misty Mountains were after him, yelping like a puppy after an encounter with Farmer Maggot and his dogs; Frodo taking him boating on the Brandywine River and rescuing him when he fell in, white-faced and remorseful, his fear in Merry's opinion quite unreasonable, since Merry had known how to swim since he was a baby.

Now all that was going to come to an end, and to the seven-year-old Merry it was the end of the world. Frodo's rich, peculiar Uncle Bilbo was going to adopt him, and from now on his beloved cousin would live at Bag End, which was to Merry's way of thinking around a thousand miles away. When the time came for Frodo to leave, he clung to his cousin with a grip that took the combined efforts of both his parents to pry loose, and when the pony and cart had long since vanished into the distance, he still sat looking after them with the stains of tears on his cheeks.

Without Frodo around, Merry found Brandy Hall plain, flat and boring. Even boating on the river was not as good without a companion, and Rosalcia was no fun. She tyrannized over him mercilessly, was terrified of the river, and couldn't run to save her life. Merry began to spend long periods of time exploring; often miles away from home in the Old Forest. The malice of the trees did not bother him, and sometimes it was almost as if they grew calm and quiet at the sight of the little, innocent hobbit-child who never seemed to regard them with fear or hostility but accepted them, just as they were, sometimes sitting for hours beneath them, lost in daydreams, or painting on a strip of bark.

Matters came to a head in the summer of 1392, when Merry had just turned eleven, and Rosalcia was seventeen. It was a beautiful summer's day, perfect for going boating.

To Merry's complete surprise, it was Rosalcia who said to him,

"Why don't we go for a little row on the river today, Meriadoc?" She always called him by his full name, which irked him.

To say that Merry was surprised would be an understatement. "Just the two of us?" he said, clearly hoping that someone more interesting would be there besides his cousin.

"In actual fact, I've invited someone else," said Rosalcia, giggling. "But you'll have to wait and see."

Merry was filled with an unreasonable hope that it might be Frodo, and could barely eat his elevenses for excitement. His corresponding disappointment when a stout hobbit with enormous fluffy feet, whom he deemed sure to sink the boat appeared, introducing himself as Hamer Chubb-Proudfoot-Grubb, was profound. Nevertheless, a trip in one of Gorbadoc's beautiful little rafts down the peaceful river on a day like this was too good to be missed, so he smiled and nodded politely when Rosalcia explained that "dear little Meriadoc" was going to "tag along."

The boat tipped alarmingly as Hamer took his seat, and the gunwale was barely above water. Rosalcia in the bows gave a sharp little scream.

"Not to worry, my darling Rose," said Hamer gallantly; but as he leaned over to push them off a large quantity of water came over the side. Rosalcia shrieked again as her pink dress was soaked.

"_I'll _push us off," said Merry, impatient at all this folderol. His slight weight made no difference to the boat, and in no time they were on their way.

Hamer rowed, the boat creaking with every mighty stroke of the oars, and Merry perched uncomfortably on the side, bailing out the water. Hamer made polite conversation to Rosalcia, who giggled and laughed, and Merry slipped gradually into a daydream of woods and trees and adventures with Frodo, and boating without a giggling lass or a heavy lump in the bows.

They moored the boat against an oak tree growing right up against the water and picnicked under it. Merry fancied that the boat gave a relieved groan when Hamer stepped out of it.

Hamer ate his food with relish, and his table manners, even by hobbits' rather lax standards, were exceedingly bad. Merry was only too glad when Rosalcia sent him off to explore.

He pottered about for a while, enjoying the dappled sunlight on the river and the trees that murmured overhead. He watched a kingfisher dart over the river several times before capturing a fish that glittered in the sun. Its plumage was bright blue. It seemed much later, though in fact it was only half an hour, before he finally made his way back to Hamer and Rosalcia.

They were holding hands under the great oak and murmuring something in soft voices. Not wanting to disturb them, Merry stood there quietly, but it seemed that a passing magpie had other plans. It squawked loudly, and the couple whipped round.

From the look Rosalcia gave him, Merry knew he was in trouble, but for the moment she said nothing. They climbed into the boat and cast off once again.

They had made it halfway back to Brandy Hall before disaster struck. The boat, taxed to the limit of its holding capacity, had had enough. With a great creaking groan, some of the boards in its bottom gave way, resulting in first a small, then a much larger leak. Merry came out of his daydreams with a start upon hearing Rosalcia's scream.

Hamer tried to turn the boat and make for shore, which was only a few yards away on either side, but the water was coming in too fast. In a moment they were all in the water – Rosalcia, Hamer, Merry and the picnic basket.

Merry came up spluttering but in control – he was a strong swimmer. Confused, for he could see the flailing Hamer but not his cousin, he made to swim over, but then arms wrapped round him from behind, and he went under.

Panicked, Merry struggled. He rose to the surface. Rosalcia surfaced, wailing. She was about to go under again, but Merry seized her by the hair and pulled her in to shore. Then he had to go to the aid of Hamer, who was rapidly losing his battle with the river.

All three of them were wet and exhausted as they plodded back to Brandy Hall, dragging the remains of the boat. Merry had had to dive again and again for the picnic basket and the expensive crockery inside, for as Rosalcia said, sobbing all the time, she just _couldn't _face Aunt Hilda (from whom she had borrowed the plates).

Merry thought it presumptuous cheek that his cousin was not at all grateful for his help in saving her from Aunt Hilda, not to mention pulling them both from the river, but even went so far as to blame him, after the disgruntled Hamer had departed, for the whole incident. They had an epic shouting match, and in the end, for lack of further insults, he yelled at her retreating back,

"You should have been a…a…a Bolger!" and then, as a second thought, "And you can leave and marry your chubby friend for all I care!"

Turning on his heel, he fled, still sopping wet, and didn't stop running until he reached the Old Forest.

The trees were whispering and uneasy when he arrived, for it was growing dark, and they were more awake than in the daytime. They seemed to match his own angry mood. He sat down at the foot of one of them to try and regain some of his equanimity, but the atmosphere around him made this impossible. For the first time, he sensed pure evil emanating from the trees. Merry shivered.

Though he never knew afterwards whether it was his own imagination or not, it seemed then that he heard a voice whispering to him from the tree above.

_Come, little brother, join us. You hate hobbits, don't you? Join us and we will invade the Shire and destroy Brandy Hall…._

Merry never knew afterwards how he got out of that wood. He ran, gasping and stumbling, and when he at last stopped, it was in front of a wide wooden gate opening out of a high wall grown over with vines, which encircled a large brick farm house with a low, thatched roof. Lost, tired and hungry, Merry pushed open the gate and went in.

_A/N. The scene with the picnic basket was of course inspired by _The Wind in the Willows_. _

_No prizes for guessing whom Merry is going to meet in the next chapter! (He appears in LOTR.) I hope you didn't find this too boring – I know the plot isn't doing much at the moment, but it will hopefully pick up pace a bit in later chapters (and the chapters do get a bit longer, as well). I'm trying to stick to canon as much as possible here, which severely limits the possibilities for adventure. _

_Reviews are always welcome, if you have time to spare!_


	3. Farmer Maggot

**3. Farmer Maggot**

_Disclaimer: I'm still alive, which unfortunately means I'm still not Tolkien. _

_A/N. I know it's been fully ten days since I last updated, but those of you who looked at my profile will have noticed that I promised fortnightly updates at best. I write slowly, and so the speed of my updates will correspond to this, because I don't want to give you a series of quick updates and then go on the dreaded HIATUS. But rest assured that this story is definitely continuing._

_Thank you to grandprincessanastasiaromanov5, Nimrodel626 and Eruthiawen Luin (did I get those right?) for your kind reviews, also noriah for guest reviewing, and to Nimrodel626, Jedi Jessic and Eruthiawen Luin for your follows and/or favourites - you convinced me not to wait for a fortnight to update again!_

_Enough of my rambling - hope this chapter doesn't disappoint!_

He was quite unprepared for the four large dogs that bounded out to meet him, hackles high and stiff, growling in unison. To his terror, they advanced on him and pinned him up against the wall.

"Nice doggie, nice, nice doggie," said Merry weakly, looking around for a means of escape. He found none. The dogs were not fooled by his attempt at politeness, and growled. Merry gave himself up for lost.

Then the front door opened, and a broad, thickset, red-faced hobbit appeared, and to Merry's great relief, called off the dogs. Merry didn't dare to speak, but his eyes rested on his saviour with a look of mute entreaty.

"Well, well, what have we here?" said the farmer good-naturedly. "Trespassers indeed, but this is a very small one. You look cold and wet and miserable, lad – are you lost?"

The mention of trespassers, and a quick glance at the surrounding fields, thick with mushrooms, convinced Merry that this was indeed Farmer Maggot, of whom Frodo had been in such abject terror during his days at Brandy Hall. Nevertheless, however frightening he might have seemed to mushroom thieves, he was apparently quite kind when you met him in person, and Merry decided to take his courage in both hands and speak up.

"I'm from Brandy Hall," he said. "But I got lost on the way to Bag End…fell in the Brandywine…." He sniffed, trying desperately not to break down completely and blubber like a baby. It had taken him just a few milliseconds to realize that he couldn't stand the thought of going back to Brandy Hall right now, and that he needed a refuge, and another few milliseconds to manufacture this lie. Besides, he justified himself, he really _was _going to go to Bag End now.

Another round face appeared in the doorway, a kindly looking female face. This must be Mrs. Maggot, thought Merry.

"Oh, my dear," she cried. "You must come in and get dry. You can't go on to Bag End as it is – it'll be dark before you get there. Why don't you come in for a bit, and then Mr. Maggot can take you in his pony trap."

And she bustled him in, not heeding his protests that he was getting water all over her floor.

Half an hour later, dressed in borrowed clothes that belonged to one of their sons, who was just about Merry's age and height, though rather broader, and with a large mug of hot milk inside him to keep away the chills, Merry jolted behind the ponies in Farmer Maggot's waggon, wedged tightly in between the farmer's two sons.

At Merry's insistence, the farmer deposited him some little way away from Bag End. He thanked him profusely and promised to stop by someday and return the clothes, to which the farmer and his sons responded in chorus that there was no need to worry. Then he walked the rest of the way, and knocked on Bag End's famously dented door.

To his relief, it was Frodo who opened the door. As much as he liked and trusted Bilbo, he would have found it difficult to explain to him what exactly he was doing outside the front door in borrowed clothes at this time of the night. Frodo, however, understood perfectly about Rosalcia and the plates. (He did not mention Farmer Maggot.)

"But you still shouldn't have come," he reproached his cousin. "They'll be worried about you, back at Brandy Hall."

"I don't care," said Merry. "I can't go back. And if you won't let me stay the night I'm sleeping on the doorstep."

Frodo knew when to back down. "Very well. But please, don't sneak off like that again without telling your mother. She'll be so worried."

Merry thought he was exaggerating but refrained from arguing. He knew that Frodo had lost his own parents when he was around Merry's age, and didn't want to awaken painful memories. He followed Frodo obediently down the hallway and into Uncle Bilbo's study.

"Hullo, Merry my lad," said Uncle Bilbo amiably, looking up from a rather mysterious looking book. On seeing Merry's look of curiosity, he closed it and put it away in his drawer. Merry was determined to find out more.

Frodo caught Merry's eye, and said carefully,

"He came to pay us a surprise visit, Uncle. I'm sure we have some dinner we can give him."

"Of course, of course. I wouldn't mind something more myself."

In the end, all three of them sat down to what was for Bilbo and Frodo an extravagant _second_ dinner, but for Merry the first substantial meal he had eaten all day. (It had been impossible to compete with Hamer for the picnic lunch and futile to try.) Frodo and Merry had a game of checkers, and then they all retired to bed.

* * *

><p>The sun rose clear and bright over Bag End and its three inhabitants, and over Buckland, which was swarming with activity like a hive of ants. Meriadoc, great-grandson of the Master of Buckland, had gone missing, and Rosalcia, who had been the last to see him, was sobbing something about the River, and…plates? ... and an expedition of Buckland's stoutest hobbits had set off to drag the river. No one thought of contacting Bag End.<p>

It was in the middle of the commotion that someone thought of Farmer Maggot. Accordingly, Hamer Chubb-Proudfoot-Grubb was sent post-haste to enquire of the farmer. Not that "post-haste" for Hamer was very fast at all, for his poor pony was so exhausted by his weight that it was midmorning before he even reached Bamfurlong.

"Lit'l Merry Brandybuck?" said the Farmer in surprise. "Small, slim lad with gold streaks in 'is hair? Why, he passed by me last night, all drippin' wet he was, and said he was going to Bag End. So I gave him a ride there in the little waggon. Now isn't it a lovely day?"

Hamer was all too happy to stay and discuss the weather, and a good half-hour more was wasted before Farmer Maggot brought their conversation to an end with, "But I be forgettin' meself – you'd best ride back to Brandy Hall and tell the folks everythin's a'right."

Meanwhile, back at Bag End, Bilbo, Frodo and Merry enjoyed a leisurely breakfast before Frodo declared that their guest must leave. Bilbo and Merry protested, but Frodo said that Merry was supposed to leave straight after breakfast, and would brook no argument.

"I'll come with you," he said in private to the reluctant Merry, "and smooth everything over. We can talk as we ride."

It was another beautiful day, and Bilbo's ponies were fresh and swift. Much as he dreaded the encounter with his no-doubt furious relatives, Merry felt his spirits lift.

It was about a mile out from the Brandywine Bridge when they overtook another rider, whose pony was shambling along as if greatly exhausted. To his surprise, Merry recognized Hamer.

He stiffened and rode on, though Frodo gave the stranger a brief wave, but unfortunately the fat hobbit had spotted him.

"Dear little Meriadoc! You're safe after all!" he cried. "We were so worried. I'd just been to Farmer Maggot to enquire about you!"

It was Frodo's turn to stiffen at the name, but Merry responded coolly,

"Then you already knew I was all right, didn't you? I did tell Mr. Maggot that I was going to Bag End. He was kind enough to give me a lift."

"Well," said Hamer rather lamely, "it's still lovely to have you back safe and sound. I was just riding back to tell your mother."

_And if _you _hadn't turned up, none of this would have happened, _thought Merry, but said nothing of the sort.

"Well," he said, smiling as cheekily as he knew how, "now you won't have to tell her, because we'll get there before you. Come on, Frodo!"

"_Merry! _We'll do nothing of the sort!" Frodo was scandalized. "We three can ride together…."

But Hamer, in high dudgeon, had turned, and was already ambling off on his own way home.

"Well, Merry, you've done it now!" exclaimed Frodo in exasperation. "How am I ever to patch things up, I ask you?"

"I don't _want_ you to patch them up," sulked Merry. "I'll do perfectly fine as it is." He dug his heels into his pony's flanks, and the animal, snorting, galloped off.

Frodo was about to give chase, but then his rational side took over. Let the lad ride. It would do him good to let off some steam. He knew all too well how Merry felt; what his cousin was going through now had been his life after his parents' death in the years before Merry. Of course, Merry's parents were still alive, but his cousin was headstrong and impulsive, and wasn't always on the best terms with them.

Merry was waiting for him still several miles from Brandy Hall. Cowardice had kicked in and he hadn't quite dared to face the storm likely to descend upon his head solely by himself. He gave Frodo a still-sulky and not-quite-repentant look, wondering whether he _had _to apologize.

"No need to talk more about this, lad," said Frodo kindly, seeing his dilemma. "I know what it's like for you. Let's go in and face your mother, eh?"

He hung around for a while, refused all offers of elevenses, and soon quietly took his leave. He met Merry's mother in the hall, still white-faced and trembling from her night of worry, and took her aside. He had been close to Aunt Esmeralda during his boyhood in Buckland, and trusted that she would not take offence at what he was about to say. He opened his mouth, but she forestalled him.

"About Merry…don't think I'm annoyed that he is so close to you. He's too adventurous for a hobbit, and I think you have a good influence on him. It's not the first time he's run off after some tiff, and as long as I know he goes to you…."

"I thank you for your trust, Aunt Esmeralda," said Frodo gravely. "Though, actually, wherever he goes, he hasn't paid me a surprise visit before. I think he likes to explore the Forest, though he has never told me in so many words. Either way, he will look after himself – always has done. I'm sorry for your worry."

"He's always been an independent boy." Esmeralda sighed. "Well, well, we mustn't keep you, Frodo dear – Mr. Baggins, I should say. Lord, how you've grown! Come and visit properly sometime, won't you?"

She saw him to the gate, whereupon he mounted and rode away, leading the second pony.

* * *

><p>In fact, Merry never again fled to Bag End for comfort. He paid a lot of unexpected visits, but these were always happy times for everyone, and he always told Esmeralda where he was going.<p>

Merry was happy. He saw little of Rosalcia now (he suspected that she visited Hamer), and when he wanted companionship he went over to Bamfurlong. Together with Hans, Hanno and Rollo, Farmer Maggot's sons (the baby, Hobo, was too young to do much), he explored all the wonders of a farmstead, from the stacks of hay that could be slid down (when their father wasn't watching), to the cattle-dogs, with their pricked ears and red dripping tongues, that rustled the patient milch cows from their rest to come and be milked. (Mrs. Maggot and her three daughters, Hannah, Dandelion and Dora did the milking.)

It was now autumn. Gone was the carefree joy of the summer, to be replaced by the anxious storing up of supplies against the coming winter. Winter in the Shire was a dull affair, unrelieved by even the advent of snow, in which young hobbits might play – only on the high moors of the Northfarthing, remote and little-populated, did the snow fall heavily enough for sport.

One day, Merry's mother took him aside. "I know you've been visiting the Maggots a lot lately, Merry darling, but I'll have to ask you not to do so as often over the winter. It's a hard time for them, for all they seem so hearty and welcoming, and they really don't have much to spare. It's going to be a hard winter, people are saying. And if you do go over there once in awhile, just tell me and I'll fix up something nice for you to take. You do understand, don't you."

"Of course," said Merry. "But can I invite Hans over here to stay sometimes? I'm going to miss him awfully."

"We'll see. You can always visit Frodo, you know. What say you to going over to Bag End for a fortnight?"

"That would be splendid, Mamma! I just have to pack."

Merry rushed off before Esmeralda had a chance to tell him that he wouldn't leave for a couple of days yet.

Bag End was the same as ever, as were its denizens. Frodo, to be sure, was a little taller and a little stouter, and Bilbo was similarly stouter, but not in the least taller, but apart from that the old hole looked as always warm, comfortable and inviting.

To Merry, however, it held a new intrigue. He was consumed with curiosity over the book that he had seen on Bilbo's desk during his visit earlier in the year. Something seemed to be telling him from the start that it was important, and Bilbo and Frodo's remarkable secrecy on the subject reinforced this feeling.

He'd mentioned it casually in a conversation with Frodo, and had been shocked by the older hobbit's reaction. "You…you've read it?" Frodo had stuttered. He seemed quite panicked.

"No, no, I just saw it on Uncle Bilbo's desk, and I wondered what it was about," Merry had said quickly, alarmed in his turn.

Frodo drew a long breath, and seemed to calm down. "Family stuff, Merry…it's confidential."

"Oh," said Merry, and changed the topic.

Though Merry's one consuming wish was to get another look at that book, the opportunity did not arise until the fortnight was nearly over. He and Frodo were out and about nearly all the time, often in the company of Sam Gamgee, who would come with his father (commonly known as the Gaffer) to help with the gardening, whereupon Bilbo would persuade his father to let him have some fun with "the lads."

Sam was a year younger than Merry, a solid young hobbit with fingers already calloused from gardening. Merry found him annoying, for he had no love of boats and it seemed very little sense of fun. It was obvious, however, that he adored Frodo, so Merry tolerated him. He suspected, however, that he was more than a little jealous of Merry himself.

Frodo was almost comically unaware of the resentment between the two. He was completely preoccupied with learning Elvish lore, and most of the time he did not join Sam and Merry in whatever activity they were engaged in, choosing instead to fall into daydreams of elves and dragons and the high towers of Númenor. On the days when the cousins stayed at Bag End, and Sam was either no longer present or working in the garden, Frodo nearly always retired to Bilbo's study, so that Merry could never hope to slip inside unnoticed.

His opportunity came the day before he was due to leave. Frodo and he were in the study as usual, and Bilbo was out making some courtesy call or other when there came a knock on the door and Frodo went to answer it. Instead of following, as he would usually have done, Merry quietly crept over to the desk and pulled open the top drawer.

He immediately recognized the grand leather tome that lay inside, and heart beating fast, pulled it out, opening it onto the title page. It read:

_My Diary. My Unexpected Journey._

_There and Back Again. And What Happened After_

The first line was crossed out, but the second, written in a thin, spidery hand, remained intact. Merry's head was whirling. The whole Shire had heard of Bilbo's disreputable adventure of several years earlier, and this, it seemed, was an account of his journey! Merry turned the page.

_Chapter 1. _

_An Unexpected Party._

_It all began one fine morning in May, when a hobbit called Bilbo Baggins was standing outside his hole, the name of which is Bag End. I may as well add now that it is an exceedingly comfortable hole._

_I am Bilbo Baggins, and Bilbo Baggins is me, and this is the story of how I had an Adventure, at the age of fifty, the year being 1341….__**[1]**_

But here Merry had to stop and hastily return the book to its place, for voices were coming down the hall, and both their guests' and Frodo's were raised in anger.

"This is _not_ your house, _Mrs. Sackville-Baggins!" _Merry grinned wryly. Troublesome relatives – he could empathize with that.

"And more's the pity. It would have been if _you _hadn't turned up!"

"You're not even a Baggins!" This was a male voice, presumably said Mrs. Sackville-Baggins' husband.

"Allow me the honour of escorting you out." This was Frodo again, frigidly polite. Merry decided that it was time to make an appearance.

"Ready to go yet? I'm all packed," he said to Frodo. Frodo looked puzzled, and for good reason; his cousin mentally cursed all thickheaded Bagginses. He gave Frodo a look that said,_ Play along, it's for your own good_, and luckily Frodo caught on.

"Yes, give me a minute; as you can see, we've got some visitors at the moment. I'm terribly sorry, but I do happen to be going out soon. Feel free to stay and make use of our teapot…and spoons," he added as an afterthought. This was a sort of inside joke between Bilbo and his nephew at the expense of Lobelia, who Bilbo believed had acquired quite a few of his best silver spoons in the auction following his Adventure and "presumed death." Merry knew nothing of this, but smiled sweetly. "Yes, do," he urged.

The Sackville-Bagginses were livid with wrath. They stalked off as majestically as one stumpy hobbit and one stringy one _could _stalk. Frodo and Merry looked at each other and burst out laughing. The front door slammed.

"Thanks, Merry, that was a life saver," said Frodo between chuckles. "Lucky I've a cousin with such a quick wit. Now I guess we'd better go out somewhere to make it true."

"But what did they _want?" _said Merry, perplexed. "And why do you hate them so much?"

"You heard them. They're a disgrace to the name of Baggins. All they want is Bilbo's hole, and by the Valar, they aren't going to get it!"

"The Valar?"

"Oh, elvish stuff. Never mind."

"So," said Merry as they set off, "tell me the story of the spoons."

* * *

><p><em>AN. Well, I hope you liked that big fat chapter! And what did you think of Farmer Maggot and his dogs? They will appear again sometime, I promise! Please review to tell me what I'm doing right and what could be improved...and whether you have a dog! _

_In the next chapter: More Frodo/Merry interaction - and the Sackville-Bagginses appear at a funeral!_

_[1] This is based on The Hobbit. Passages from the Red Book quoted will be based on The Hobbit and LOTR; also some dialogue. If in doubt which is which, look in the books. It should be fairly obvious, anyway. Generally I will borrow the dialogue but invent my own language for the filling_


	4. A New And Unexpected Grief

4. A New and Unexpected Grief

**TYPO CORRECTED - THANK YOU ERUTHIAWEN LUIN :)**

_Disclaimer: I still don't own LOTR_

_A/N. First of all, thank you to Eruthiawen Luin, Goldie Gamgee and loreleirain82 for reviewing! :) I really, really appreciate it. Eruthiawen: Plenty more Sackville-Baggins humour to come!  
>loreleirain82: Thank you for pointing out my error, I don't have my copy of ROTK at the moment and consequently can't use the family trees at the back for reference :P<br>Goldie Gamgee - I was so surprised and overwhelmed that you took the time to type long reviews for all THREE of the chapters I'd posted so far, thank you for all your encouragement! About Gorbadoc's death date...I have a rather wordy explanation for that later on ;)._

_Also...there are a couple of things you should check out, even before reviewing this chapter ;) - Goldie Gamgee's fantastic fic _We Four Stand Together _and also this super cool blog by a friend of mine, the link for some reason keeps vanishing when I try to copy/paste, but try searching: **dappled light **plus **simply food, art, poetry, and observations about life**_

_Another thing...sorry, but this chapter is only about half as long as the last one, and they will probably stay this length. I don't have the literary stamina required to write 3,000 word chapters all the time :P_

* * *

><p>It was now late December. The wind blew biting and cold, and the sky was grey. Over Brandy Hall there hung the coldness of grief. Gorbadoc, the ancient Master of Buckland, was dying. The cold of the winter had proved the last straw for his already failing lungs, and all the loving care that hobbits knew so well how to bestow could do no more than delay the rapid approach of the Grim Reaper.<p>

Frodo was with Merry at Brandy Hall. He had arrived the day before, to pay his last respects to the grandfather that had taken him in during the aftermath of Drogo and Primula's deaths. To Merry's concern, he was more distant and withdrawn than ever, and Merry took to watching him always, even to the point of lying awake at night, listening for footsteps that would indicate that Frodo was pacing the floor, sleepless.

One night, Frodo awoke with a start. It was a full moon, lighting up his room into a grey semblance of day, and glittering coldly in the mirror opposite his bed.

Something about the moon, and the stillness of the night, made his heart clench in foreboding. Under such a moon had his parents drowned, thirteen years earlier, and under such a moon had he stood, grieving, beside the river. He tried to pass his feeling off as superstition, but the more he tried to ignore it, the stronger it grew. In the end, he dressed and softly padded down the hall to Gorbadoc's room.

The old hobbit was lying still in the bed, his chest rising and falling peacefully. All seemed to be well. Annoyed at his own paranoia, Frodo turned to leave, but suddenly his grandfather opened his eyes.

"Gaffer," said Frodo gently, sinking to his knees beside the old hobbit. "I'm sorry if I woke you." He wanted to say, _I'd come to say goodbye, _but knew he mustn't. There might be hope yet.

He didn't even know why he felt so much pain at the thought of his gaffer's passing. He was old – a hundred and twenty-seven – it was time for him to rest. He knew that one day, beyond the Sea, he would see the old hobbit again. But among hobbits, family ties run strong, and for Frodo there was besides the added closeness that not having parents of his own had brought, when he was a young, lonely child at Brandy Hall.

The dying Master of Buckland seemed to have read Frodo's mind. "Frodo…you came to say goodbye. Why…not say it?"

Frodo's face contorted. "Hush, you must rest. I'll call Aunt Esmeralda."

"No!" The older hobbit held Frodo's eyes with his own. "Goodbye, Frodo…grandson."

Frodo was silent, and in a whisper the other added, "I only…waited…for the new year…."

And with that, Gorbadoc, Master of Buckland, drew his last breath.

It was the 2nd of Yule, 1393.

An arm came across Frodo's shoulders, and he was aware of a curly mop of brown hair pressing against his cheek.

"Frodo. Are you all right?"

Merry.

"He's dead," Frodo managed to say.

"I know."

"He can't be dead."

"I'm here."

"We should wake the house."

"That can wait a little longer," said Merry softly.

Frodo was weeping soundlessly, his face turned away. Out of respect, Merry got up and left the room, going to his parents' chamber. They were talking quietly, and he caught a few words.

"He'll be devastated…." His father's voice was a low rumble. Were they talking about him or Frodo?

"…After his parents died, he was so…."

"…Yes…."

"Are _you _going to be able to let him go, Saradoc, dear?"

His father's reply was inaudible.

Merry called out, his voice quavering in the gloom,

"Mum? Dad? Something's happened!"

Esmeralda's pale face appeared so close to him that he jumped. "It's Grandfather, isn't it?" He nodded, mutely. "Saradoc!" she called. "Wake the house!"

Merry's father appeared in his shirtsleeves, astonishingly self-possessed. He lit one of the large lanterns in the hall, and the dark passage blazed into light. Soon the whole Hall was scurrying with activity.

Back in his room, Frodo wept.

"Why do I have to lose everyone?" he repeated over and over.

"You haven't lost me," pointed out a quiet voice from the doorway. Frodo whipped round.

"Confusticate it all, Merry, why do you have to appear like this?"

"You needn't be ashamed, you know," said Merry matter-of-factly. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"It's as if I'm fated," said Frodo gloomily. "Next it might be you, or Uncle Bilbo."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Frodo," said Merry. "Great-Gaffer Gory was a hundred and twenty-seven. By the time I reach that age I for one will be glad to go. Point is, I'm not, and neither is Uncle Bilbo."

Frodo smiled rather faintly. "I suppose not."

"Come," said Merry, sensing that what his cousin needed right now was to talk about it. "Tell me about when you were growing up here, before I came along."

The two cousins talked until daybreak.

* * *

><p>Bilbo rode over early next day, to pay his respects to the deceased Master, who had been a personal friend of his. He found the Hall in turmoil, much as it had been when Merry had run off earlier in the year.<p>

Seeking some peace and quiet, he found his way to Frodo's room, and found Frodo and Merry talking quietly. Both looked up as he entered.

"So how are you keeping up, my lad?" he asked Frodo, patting his shoulder. Once, Merry would have been jealous, but now to his surprise he found nothing in his heart but understanding.

"Well, thank you, Uncle. But I'm glad you're here." He saw that Bilbo looked rather tired and frazzled. "How are you?"

"The whole household is seething like an ant hill," the older hobbit grumbled. "Crowds get on my nerves."

Frodo knew why. Bilbo had just finished writing in his book an account of his captivity by a horde of orcs. It really wasn't any wonder that his uncle now became a little paranoid when faced with large numbers of people, orcs or otherwise.

"Come then, Uncle Bilbo, we can take a walk in the garden. I'd like some fresh air too," Merry put in. His cousin really was frighteningly perceptive, Frodo thought. He was sure it was a new development, though what had caused it Frodo didn't know.

The three of them walked off together. Bilbo and Frodo walked ahead, talking quietly, and Merry dawdled along in the rear, feeling that the two would appreciate a little private conversation. Frost crunched under his furry feet – like frozen tears, he thought suddenly. Someday, he would have to paint this frozen garden, this world of white.

The voices of his companions had faded off as they walked further and further ahead of him (it was a large and magnificent garden, more like a park, really), and Merry had sunk further and further into reverie. Now, however, an altogether shriller and less welcome voice made him start and look warily around. His cousin Rosalcia, and the chubby Hamer, were coming side by side down the path towards him.

"Meriadoc!" exclaimed Rosalcia in a sort of lugubrious wail that grated unpleasantly on his eardrums. "Isn't this awful! Poor, poor Gaffer Gory!" And she dissolved into sobs on his shoulder without further ado.

Frodo had done the same thing the night before, but what Merry would gladly do for his beloved cousin Frodo he was not disposed to put up with from the lass who had been the bane of his existence ever since he was seven. So he patted her hard enough on the back that she drew back in discomfort, and latched onto Hamer instead.

Merry fled, Hamer looking after him with an expression of nonplussed despair.

* * *

><p>Dinner in the Hall was worse. Saradoc and Esmeralda conversed with Bilbo about wine, the three of them forcing a cheerfulness that they did not feel. Frodo and Merry ate side by side in silence, though Merry, casting anxious sidelong glances at his cousin throughout, noticed that Frodo ate very little. Rosalcia was tearful, but when Hamer tried to comfort her she leapt from her seat with a look of disgust and stormed from the room, leaving an awkward silence behind her. Evidently the lovers had had some falling-out. Hamer fiddled with his napkin and looked around the room nervously and eventually stood up and left the room as well.<p>

The funeral was the next day. Hobbits wear green to funerals – an old tradition, the reasons for which have been long since lost.

Frodo worried that he might break down again during the ceremony, but with Merry and Bilbo at his side he was able to keep a hold on his emotions. It was the old hobbit who had to keep blowing his nose. Frodo put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Rosalcia, dressed in her best green gown, was sobbing again. She had written a short poem in memory of her great-grandfather but was too overcome to deliver it, so Rory snatched it and read it out instead. Frodo was annoyed at her sentimentality and general bad rhyming but could not but feel a grudging sympathy for her grief. Merry, however, who had noticed that she was not sitting with Hamer but with some of her female cousins, suspected that her grief was due more to her quarrel with her lover than to any real love for her grandfather, and henceforth despised her more than ever.

When the ceremony was over, Frodo extricated himself from the throng as soon as was decorously possible, and waited with Merry some distance away from the crowds of sympathetic hobbits who would have given their condolences if they'd been able to find him – the last thing either of them wanted at the moment.

Suddenly, Frodo gave a gasp, and before Merry could even turn around, he'd turned and bolted unceremoniously into the nearest hedge.

"For heavens' sake, Frodo!" said Merry, "what - "

He stopped short. He too had seen the Sackville-Bagginses coming, a good hour late, down the road. Without hesitation he dived into the hedge beside Frodo. Neither of them had the least desire to meet Frodo's disagreeable relatives again.

After a little while, Bilbo appeared, looking flustered and angry and muttering something about "insufferable hobbits."

"Was it the S.-B.s, Uncle?" said Frodo sympathetically. "You should have come to hide out with us."

"Yes, I should have," said Bilbo crossly. "At a _funeral, _badgering me about Bag End! I had a good mind to ram my cane down Otho's self-satisfied throat!"

He continued to grumble angrily all the way back to Brandy Hall.

* * *

><p><em>AN. By the way, the idea that hobbits wear green to funerals is completely my idea, and probably explicitly contradicted somewhere in the vast bundle of Tolkien's works. J.R.R. and all die-hard fans - I apologise, but green is my favourite colour plus a pretty symbolic one too, and I couldn't resist._

_Reviews, as always, would be greatly appreciated, and this time I have a question for you: I think we all agree that Rosalcia is a very irritating and shallow person: the question is, do you want her to redeem herself or not in the following chapters (she does appear again, though not a main character by any means)? In other words, do you want me to write her as a slightly more sympathetic character, with insight into her motivations and feelings, or to pile on the irritating-ness? Please review and help me decide!_

_Next chapter (and the chapter after that): The Sackville-Bagginses make more trouble _


	5. Visitors, Pleasant And Otherwise

5. Visitors, Pleasant and Otherwise

_Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own LOTR..._

_A/N. Well, this is an early update, but don't get your hopes up! This is a bit of a filler chapter, which is why I thought I'd post it now. It seemed too evil of me to keep you waiting for a chapter that wasn't even going to be that good._

_Why write this chapter at all, you may ask? Well, I just wanted to devote a chapter to some questions that had arisen in the narrative - one of which Goldie Gamgee picked up on (Gorbadoc's death date), and see what it felt like to write as a slightly officious and wordy Hobbit Historian. There is actually a section which I warn you not to read if you aren't interested in this sort of thing. But hopefully some parts of the chapter are worth reading, especially the part where Lobelia... SPOILERS!_

_Again, thank you so much to Goldie Gamgee and Eruthiawen Luin for reviewing!  
>Goldie - Thanks for the advice, and Rosalcia is going to come back, just not quite yet! :)<br>Eruthiawen - you'll see ;) Thanks for the vote of confidence and I hope you like the way this story is heading... I nearly forgot to mention that I fixed up the mistake, thanks for pointing it out! :)_

_On with the story!_

* * *

><p>Frodo and his uncle returned to Bag End some days later, devoutly hoping that they had seen the last of Lobelia and Otho. They talked as they rode about various subjects, and eventually settled on the subject of Bilbo's book. The latter had just reached the chapter where he took the Ring from Gollum.<p>

"But I don't think I shall put that in," he was saying. "It's much too…well…secret, you know, Frodo lad."

"Well, the whole book is secret, isn't it?" said Frodo. "I mean, I'm the only one who has ever read it, apart from you. And besides, if you leave it out, then…. Well, it's an interesting story, and it would be a shame."

"No, my mind is made up," Bilbo spoke with uncharacteristic sharpness.

"Very well, Uncle." Frodo knew when to capitulate. "But tell me the story once again. There's no-one on the road, and several miles yet to Hobbiton."

Bilbo began:

"When I woke up, it was completely dark all around me. I might as well have not opened my eyes at all, Frodo my lad, it was that dark. I bumbled around a bit in the dark, for the goblins had all gone, and then, as I was crawling along on hands and knees, guess what I put my hand on?"

"What, Uncle?" Frodo knew quite well, but it was a sort of ritual, every time. Bilbo would say, "Guess what I found?" and Frodo would say, "What?" and then Bilbo would continue with the story.

"It felt like a ring - a cold metal ring. I figured it might come in handy, so I put it in my pocket. Still, it was cold and dank and miserable in there, and I was getting hungry, and I just sat down and thought about eggs and bacon and my lovely hobbit hole all those miles away, and got miserabler and miserabler. And then I found I didn't have even a match for my pipe, and I felt even more miserable." He paused, waiting for some comment.

"Poor dear Bilbo," said Frodo, but he was smiling. That was another ritual for them.

Bilbo coughed. "Ahem. Well, then I felt around a bit, and I found I still had my sword, so I drew it, and got up, and on I went. I went on, and on, and I was still rather hungry and weak, so the going was rather slow. And then I was just about to give up hope, Frodo lad, when – splash! – I stepped up to my ankles in water, and it was frightfully cold.

"That made me pause and think. I didn't dare go any further, for what if I fell in beyond my depth, thought I, and drownded? And that was when I heard a voice. It was a horrible, creaking, hissing voice and it made me shudder."

Frodo, riding alongside, shuddered too in delicious anticipation. It was a story that he still loved, although at twenty-four he should have been too old for fairy tales.

"'Bless us and splash us, my precioussss!' it said. 'I guess it's a choice feast; at least a tasty morsel it'd make us, gollum!'

"I was terrified. Whatever the thing was, it had an evil voice and pale, luminous eyes – what could be worse? Still, the Tookish side of me was running strong and so I thrust out Sting in front of me and shouted, 'Who are you?' though I didn't feel at all brave.

"'What iss he, my preciouss?' says Gollum, all sinister-like.

"'I am Mr. Bilbo Baggins,' says I. 'I have lost the dwarves and I have lost the wizard, and I don't know where I am and I don't want to know, if only I can get away.'

"'What's he got in his handses?' says Gollum.

"'A sword," says I, as fiercely as I can.

"'Sssss,' says Gollum, and I felt quite relieved, for he backed away from me a bit and I felt a lot safer. 'Praps we sits here and chats with it a bitsy, my preciousss. It likes riddles, praps it does, does it?'

"'Very well,' says I, not exactly relieved, 'but you ask first.'

"So Gollum hissed:

_What has roots as nobody sees,_

_Is taller than trees,_

_Up, up it goes,_

_And yet never grows?"_

"Mountain!" said Frodo, laughing. "And you, dear foolish Uncle, told him it was easy, so he made you have a competition."

"He did, my lad. But I'll tell you the rest of it inside, over a pipe – for here we are." They dismounted. Bilbo went ahead of Frodo into the sitting room and gave a horrid gasp.

Frodo's heart jumped into his throat. All his earlier fears came flashing back. Maybe his infernal bad luck had struck again. He dashed into the room - "Bilbo! Are you all right?" – and came face to face with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, seated calmly on Bilbo's favourite sofa.

* * *

><p>It was Frodo's turn to gasp.<p>

"What are you doing in here?" he yelped indignantly. "Helping yourself to Bilbo's spoons?"

Bilbo, though clearly angry himself, shot the younger hobbit a quelling look.

"My nephew's question is valid, Mrs. Sackville-Baggins. You have no right to invite yourself into other people's holes."

"Then you should have locked the front door. As to the question of my honesty, the idea that it should be otherwise is absurd. Do I look like a common thief?"

"Yes!" said Frodo furiously. "Or at any rate you are behaving like one. Since when did decent, law-abiding hobbits have to lock their doors for fear of break-ins?" He was running out of steam and subsided into splutters.

"Well, may I remind you that you seem to have at one time thought the role of a _'common thief'_ perfectly honourable?! If you want people to behave with honourable decency, then you shouldn't have gone off having Adventures. Or, better yet, you should not have come back!" Lobelia's voice had risen to a shriek.

Bilbo was ashy white, whether with rage or fear Frodo did not know. All his restraint had gone.

"_You read my book, didn't you?" _he said in deadly tones. "How else do you know about my Adventure, and my role as a Burglar? You thieving, prying, snatching, snippering _prune! ! !"_

"Bilbo, please," said Frodo, fearful, indeed, lest his uncle be provoked to physical violence; but Bilbo had sunk weakly into a chair. Frodo turned to Lobelia.

"I think you should leave, dear madam," he said with heavy sarcasm. "And next time, knock before you enter."

He pulled Bilbo, who was still stunned by both the situation and his own violence, into the study, and slammed the door, locking it from within. Lobelia pounded futilely on the door for a while, spouting words that were as close to swearing as hobbits ever got, before stamping off in rage. From the sound of the crashes that could be heard in her wake, she had damaged some household items in the process.

"I will be back, _Mr. Burglar!_" she shouted in a voice that they were sure could be heard by the whole of Hobbiton, as she slammed the front door.

After waiting a few minutes, Frodo cautiously drew back the bolts and opened the door. He got Bilbo out into the dining room and made him some tea. The old hobbit was in a state of shock still, and would only repeat "Dear, oh dear, oh dear," for quite a while, until his plaints were drowned with mouthfuls of tea. After drinking five mugs in succession, he revived sufficiently to be horrified.

"And now that she has read my book, goodness knows what rumours she will spread about me," he groaned.

Frodo patted his hand comfortingly, and pressed a sixth mug upon him.

"I think, my dear Bilbo, you will find that Lobelia will not spread any rumours at all about you, at least for the present," said a deep voice behind them. Frodo whipped round – Bilbo, still drinking tea, was less successful, choked, and could not stop spluttering for quite a while.

"Gandalf?" said Frodo uncertainly. He had only ever heard about the wizard, and never seen him.

"The very same, Master Baggins. Well met, and good morning."

"Well met," said Frodo, bowing; there was an air of majesty about the stranger that could not be cloaked even by his rather tattered grey robes. But the old man – for he was old, and of medium stature (though he towered over the two hobbits), with a long grey beard and bright, piercing eyes. But he had a kindly smile, Frodo saw, and his eyes, though terrible, were gentled.

"Gandalf!" cried Bilbo, now sufficiently recovered to spring up and greet his old friend. "Come in, come in!"

The absurdity of it, when Gandalf was already very much inside, and through no invitation of Bilbo's, sent Frodo into a fit of laughter which he only just stifled by biting his lip and pressing his hand against his mouth. He made a dive for the open kitchen door, and busied himself with searching out cakes and beer for their unexpected guest. In a little while the three of them sat down over a modest meal of seed cakes, ham and cheese (the cold tongue had very mysteriously gone missing in their absence, but perhaps it was as well; Bilbo had been away for quite a few days and it would have gone mouldy, after all).

Afterwards, Frodo was left to his own devices while Bilbo and Gandalf retired to the study to talk. Merry would have listened at the door, but Frodo was rather more scrupulous. He retired discreetly into the garden, and amused himself anyhow until Bilbo came out to say that Gandalf had gone. Frodo noticed that Bilbo looked even more tired, and that his talk seemed to have left him in a foul humour. However, knowing his uncle too well, he refrained from questioning him.

So what had happened in those two hours that Bilbo and Gandalf had sat talking in Bilbo's study to make the old hobbit so out of temper? We must go back to the story Bilbo never finished telling Frodo – how he found his magic ring.

Those only interested in the exploits of Frodo and his cousin, and in the bare bones of the telling of this tale, would do well to skip the following account.

* * *

><p>Anyone reading this will already know the story of how Bilbo bested Gollum in the riddle-game, and with the help of the Ring escaped safe and sound (if minus all the beautiful brass buttons on his already rather tattered waistcoat!) from both Gollum's treachery and the goblins' lair.<p>

It is strange to say, however, that if you look in what later became the Red Book of Westmarch – the large red leather tome that we have encountered already in Bilbo's study, and concerning which Master Merry was possessed of such fatal curiosity – there are there recorded two different versions of the incident, one being the narrative we all know today. The other is less well known, and goes as follows[1]:

_…__.So Gollum hissed:_

What has roots as nobody sees,

Is taller than trees,

Up, up it goes,

And yet never grows?

_"__Easy!" exclaimed I, in great relief. You all, I hope, know the answer to that riddle; suffice to say that I gave it. _

_I can only think that the slimy creature was longing to see what I tasted like, no hobbit having ever ventured into his dominions before; or else he was very hungry, for he challenged me to the Riddle Game with these words:_

_ "__Does it guess easy? It must have a competition with us, my preciouss! If precious asks, and we doesn't answer, we eats it, my preciouss. If it asks us, and we doesn't answer, we gives it a present, gollum!"_

There then follows an account of the Riddle-game, which need not be repeated. Finally, Bilbo narrates that he, desperate, made Gollum guess what was in his pocket, and thus fairly won the game.

Gollum then went back to his island in the water to get the "present" – great indeed was his consternation to find that he had lost it.

"Where iss it? Where iss it?" he wailed. "Lost, lost, my preciouss, lost, lost! Bless us and splash us! We haven't the present we promised, and we haven't even got it for ourselves."

_I turned round and waited, wondering what it could be that the creature was making such a fuss about. In the end, out of all poor Gollum's spluttering and whispering and croaking, I gathered that the "present" had been a wonderful, beautiful ring, which he had been given as a birthday present, long, long ago, and it made the wearer invisible._

_I thought at once of the ring that I had stumbled upon in the dark. I had no doubt that it was the very same. Still, finders were keepers, and I saw a chance that I might be able to keep the ring (which I was fairly entitled to) and make Gollum show me the way out at the same time. The former was in a state of great consternation, begging my pardon and squirming and whining; he even offered to catch me some "nice juicy fisssssh" as a consolation. (I did not doubt that the "fisssssh" concerned would be nice enough to his mind, but hardly to my taste. Raw fish! Never had I sunk so low.) _

_ "__Never mind," says I then, "the ring would have been mine now, if you had found it; so you would have lost it anyway. And I will let you off on one condition..."_

So Bilbo escaped, with Gollum's help, and lived to tell the tale – this version of which, at any rate, he mostly fabricated. It was around this time that Frodo wrote down the true account, and Bilbo's motives for doing so, in a private diary, later expanded and amalgamated into the Red Book:

_For I believe that the true tale is of the utmost importance, and dear Bilbo has himself extolled truthfulness above all other virtues. I do not know why he has suddenly decided to break his own rule._

This diary has indeed only just now come to light, and also clears up a number of inconsistencies left unresolved by the Red Book and other sources, among them the birth and death of Frodo's much-beloved Gaffer Gory, a point long contested among historians, some of whom believed Gorbadoc's death date to have been 1363, while conflicting evidence suggests that he was in fact still alive in 1380, the year of Drogo and Primula's deaths.

It must be borne in mind that in the original genealogy both Gorbadoc's birth and death dates are virtually illegible, having been badly smudged by ink. By careful examination, Gorbadoc's birth date was pronounced to have been in 1260 and the date of his death 1363, but there was a large element of conjecture in this guess.

And then Frodo's diary turned up, shedding new light upon these ancient texts, and confirming that the events so far recorded happened when they did. A more detailed explanation of this is irrelevant to our tale, and is therefore omitted.

* * *

><p>Bilbo showed Gandalf into his study, and offered him a seat. He was a little put out when the wizard declined the offer and chose to remain standing, examining Bilbo's books and other stationery, and the magnificent oak shelves.<p>

"Goodness me," said he, "what a collection you have here, my dear hobbit. It is a library of which even a lore-master would be proud. Of course, that is what you have become, in a small way, I suppose – the only master of elvish lore in the Shire."

Bilbo bowed. "You flatter me."

"Not at all – I speak the truth as I see it" – seizing as he spoke upon Bilbo's memoirs.

Bilbo gulped as Gandalf flipped through the book, and waved his hands helplessly, not wanting to dismiss his old friend as summarily as he had the prying Lobelia, but not quite comfortable with anyone reading it.

Gandalf looked up. "Ah, the memories of old times! You and me and the thirteen dwarves on the road, with not a single pocket-handkerchief! I am glad you decided that they were worth writing down. Every generation needs a record of these things – I would have done it myself, were I not so busy."

"'You and me and the thirteen dwarves' indeed! You may leave yourself out, if you please!" laughed Bilbo. "You had an uncanny knack of disappearing and only reappearing when we had got ourselves in trouble, just in time to save us. I cannot say that you ever actually _travelled _with us."

"Maybe so, maybe so. I see that you are nearly up to writing down how you got your magic ring – or, as you say, _won _it."

"Exactly. I won it. What is so unbelievable about that? I don't know why you keep badgering me like this about that ring. Why the ring? You never bothered to ask about the other treasures I brought back from the journey."[2] Bilbo's voice had quite lost its jesting tone, and he was getting very annoyed.

"My dear hobbit," said Gandalf. He too sounded quite serious now, and even hesitant, which was unusual for him. "I am not half so thick as you may believe, and rather more concerned for your welfare. I'm inviting you, as one gentleman (or gentlehobbit as the case may be) to another, to tell me the truth about this ring. It would ease my mind greatly. You cannot be too careful with objects like this – they are…well…magical, and as an expert, as you might say, in such matters, I have both a…well, a professional interest in your ring, and I also feel it is my duty to…warn you against any…ah…_unsavoury _characteristics it may have. Do you see what I mean?"[3]

"No, I don't see," said Bilbo sharply. "The ring doesn't bite, and it's never done anything to me. You don't see me turning into an orc or something, do you? I will tell you what I choose, and when I choose, Gandalf."

The wizard sighed. He suddenly looked very old, and very tired.

"And you have every right to refuse to take me into your confidence. I acknowledge that. But I thought we were friends, Bilbo, and friendship, I tell you now, can never survive without some measure of trust."

Bilbo was too kindly and soft-hearted to resist this appeal.

"Very well, I will tell you. But do sit down! It hurts both my neck and my self-esteem to have to talk with you with my neck craned up to an unnatural degree in an attempt to see your face. You're an old sentimental fool, Bilbo, for all you're well-preserved, but here goes, for old times' sake," he added in thought. He took a deep breath, and began.

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><p><em>AN. To borrow the words of Goldie Gamgee, the review button needs some TLC! So click on it! _

_[1] Based on the 1937 Hobbit edition; the dialogue is Tolkien's_

_[2] Based on the scene after Bilbo vanishes from the party, and Gandalf persuades him to give up the ring (FOTR ch. 1)_

_[3] See 2_

_Next chapter: Frodo is knocked over, Sam puts his foot in it, Merry writes a letter, and we meet Fatty Bolger!_


	6. Here Comes Trouble

6. Here Comes Trouble

_Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own LOTR_

_A/N. I feel warm and fluffy and encouraged by the reviews I have received since posting the last chapter. Thank you Eruthiawen Luin, meldahlie, Frodo's sister, and Goldie Gamgee! xxxxx_

_Also - I am not a lawyer - I have zero legal knowledge, so please excuse any mistakes. You can point them out in a review or you can just imagine, as I did, that hobbits' legal system is very different to our own ;)_

_I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint _

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><p>Lobelia's parting threat was soon carried out.<p>

It was the first warm day in nearly three months, and Frodo was outside in the garden, helping Sam to mulch the roses that were just coming out, having forcefully persuaded the old Gaffer, who was still rather weak after an attack of the 'flu, and go home and rest.

"But the roses – they need takin' care of, Mr. Frodo!"

"Sam can show me how to do it, and I can help him. Now _please _go home and rest – you deserve it."

"But Mr. Frodo…."

"Now begging your pardon, Mr. Gamgee, but Bilbo and I have been teaching Sam his letters, and I think he owes it to us to teach me gardening," said Frodo laughing. "I'm sure he's well up to it, having learnt from the best. Allow you to escort you to Bagshot Row" – and old Hamfast, pleased in spite of himself, gave in.

So Frodo carefully trimmed the roses and spread the mulch under Sam's expert direction – too expert for Frodo's liking, for he felt that the younger hobbit had grown old too early with too-great responsibilities laid on his shoulders. When _he _was eleven, he had been roaming the woods of the Shire and truanting from Brandy Hall to steal mushrooms, not spending his days gardening as if he were an old gaffer already. He thought of Merry – he was a year older than Sam, but often seemed much younger.

"I wonder how Merry is getting on," he said aloud. "I haven't seen him since…." Suddenly a wave of nostalgia and memories, jumbled all together, came crashing down on him. He rarely missed the good old times at Brandy Hall, where he'd been forced to amuse himself for days on end among the sea of relations constantly hurrying about their own business, with no time to stop for him – it had been occasionally jolly but constantly lonely, and on the whole he preferred Bag End. But now he remembered Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda, and Merry, whom he might not see again for a long time, since old Rory, who was the new Master of Buckland, disapproved of all the Bagginses; and even the dim memories of his parents surfaced with a sharp ache of loss.

"Watch out, Mr. Frodo!" came a sharp squawk of alarm from Sam. "You'll ruin them bushes if you don't leave some room for them to breathe!" and he came out of his thoughts with a start to realize that he had buried the unfortunate plant inches deep in mulch.

"Sorry, Sam," said Frodo with a chuckle, and Sam had to grin in spite of himself.

The sun had reached its zenith before, sweaty, muddy and satisfied, they trooped inside for some food. Sam rummaged in the cupboard and emerged with a large saucepan, while Frodo dived into the pantry and emerged with some beans. He was about to put the beans into the pan, but Sam snatched it.

"Oh, no, Mr. Frodo, I can do it!"

"Very well," said Frodo absentmindedly, for his sharp ears had just caught the sound of voices outside – voices that he knew all too well. "Oh, _no!" _he breathed. "No, no, _no!"_ Forgetting about Sam and the beans, he rushed to the door when he heard the first loud knock, intending to bolt it, but as he fumbled with the latch the door was unceremoniously kicked open, and he found himself lying on the ground gazing up at the hairs in Otho Sackville-Baggins' port-wine nose. As his wits returned he heard Sam yelping, "Mr. Frodo! Mr. Frodo! Are you all right?"

He propped himself on his elbows, shaking his head and blinking away the stars that clouded his vision. The nose had started to scowl fiercely, so he made haste to get to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Well," he said, trying to keep his voice strong, which was difficult considering he'd just been winded, "what do you want?"

"I demand to see the old fogey who pretends to be your adopted father," said Otho pompously, pushing past Frodo, who was still too dazed to muster much resistance.

"He is here," said an angry voice. Bilbo, positively swelling with rage and surprise (and not a little alarm at seeing Frodo sprawled on the floor), was standing in the middle of the passage, hands on hips. "And you'd better not have damaged the lad, or I shall have something to say to you, O yes I will!"

Both Otho and his wife, who was peering at them over her husband's stout shoulder, smiled nastily. "I'm afraid it's we who have something to say to you. Let us go to your study, where we may talk in private."

"Private!" Bilbo was spluttering. "Anything you have to say may be said just as well in front of my heir and trusted neighbour. Now say it and be gone – ow!" For Otho had just elbowed him in the ribs, sending him staggering, and was sweeping, Lobelia on his arm, towards the comfort of Bilbo's study.

The next few moments were a confused tangle of shouting and struggling, and in the turmoil Sam rushed forward with the saucepan in his hand, and swinging it mightily, smote Otho on the head. He hit the ground like a felled tree, splatters of beans coating his hair and forehead. Sam, horrified at the damage he had inflicted, just stood.

"Now see what you've done," shrieked Lobelia, "you Buckland savage!" Sam spoke up stoutly.

"Please ma'am, it was I as walloped him. I'm truly sorry he's hurt, but you and Mr. Sackville-Baggins didn't have no business coming in here uninvited-like and botherin' Mr. Bilbo and hurtin' Mr. Frodo." It was a long speech for the usually shy Sam.

"O indeed! That's what comes of the likes of you getting ideas above your station – war and murder and disorder! A night or two in the Lockholes, that's what you need. That'd cool you off a bit, O indeed!" Both Bilbo and Frodo tried to interrupt, but Lobelia was in full tirade mode and could not be stopped.

"You try to silence _me _sir? I shall have your servant hauled up for violent assault and battery, O yes I will! And what will you do then?"

Bilbo tried to say that he and his lawyers were more than adequate to dealing with any of Lobelia's vile machinations, but Lobelia just continued over him.

"This is a madhouse with a warden as mad as the rest of them! You'll come to a bad end, Bilbo Baggins, you mark my words, you miserable Burglar! And _you," _turning viciously to Sam – "did your parents never teach you to respect your elders and betters? A night or two in the Lockholes, O yes, that's the way to deal with your cheek! O indeed! I'm sure Mr. Grubb will have much to say to you about your bebothersome ornery disobedience!" (Mr. Grubb, as you will recall, was partner in the firm that had arranged the auction of Bag End when Bilbo was Missing and Presumed Dead, and a renowned lawyer in his own right.) Bilbo opened his mouth, but Lobelia's voice rose to a shriek.

"And how will your good-for-nothing father be pleased with you then, when you have ruined him with lawyers' fees brought upon him by yourself, and are sitting in the Lockholes reflecting, I hope, upon your sins?"

"I assure you, ma'am, that I am more than equal to paying any lawyers' expenses you may thrust upon either me or my old friend Hamfast – more than I may say for you." Bilbo had finally managed to get a word in.

"Why, you - ! ! ! But it shall not be necessary, if you only agree to give the cur the punishment he deserves."

"I shall do nothing of the sort, my dear Lobelia. Go and call the lawyer. There is the door. I shall help you transport your husband." Otho had been lying on the floor throughout the whole discussion, insensible to both his wife's shrieks and Bilbo's frigid tones. Sam, despite himself, let out a hysterical snicker, which he quickly stifled, looking aghast at himself. Frodo sent him a comforting look.

At eleven o'clock the following Monday the case was declared open. Master Hamer Chubb-Proudfoot-Grubb and his uncle Mr. Tomer Grubb were the prosecution's lawyers, while the lawyer for the defence was Mr. Odovacar Bolger.

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><p><em>Dear Frodo,<em>

_I'm bored. Rosalcia has been arguing with Hamer _again, _and is sulking like anything. She declares that she might just run away from home and have an Adventure, which I think you will agree would do her a world of good. Meanwhile, she is driving me insane! Can I come and stay at your place for a while, I'll sleep on the doorstep if you don't have room for me, and bring my own food, just let me stay until the storm, so to speak, has blown over. Pleeeease?_

_Merry_

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><p>"I'm so sorry, sir," Sam Gamgee apologized for the umpteenth time. "I didn't mean to bring this upon ye."<p>

"Don't fret, my dear lad," Bilbo replied, as he had been replying for the past two days. He had not only had to deal with the son, but the father, for old Ham Gamgee had come in person not once, but five times, begging Bilbo's pardon on Sam's behalf and insisting that he would pay for any damages, and patiently, five times, Bilbo had pointed out that Sam had walloped Otho in stout if mistaken defence of his master, and if anyone apart from the S. -B.s should pay, then it must be him.

"You're a sentimental old fool, Bilbo," he said to himself after Sam had left, and pulled out his half-finished book in an attempt to calm his frazzled nerves. He had finished the chapter on Gollum (the "edited" version), and had started narrating how the Eagles of the Mountains had rescued him, Gandalf, and the thirteen dwarves from the goblins and wild wargs.

Bilbo was not allowed to work uninterrupted for long, however, for pretty soon the doorbell rang. "Will you answer it, Frodo my lad?" he called irritably from his study.

Frodo opened the door to find Mr. Bolger the lawyer outside. His round face was worried, and his brown, good-natured eyes were sober.

"Come in, Mr. Bolger," said Frodo, bowing politely.

"Thank you," said he, wiping his feet scrupulously on the mat. "This is my son Fredegar, though everyone calls him Fatty, I can't think why," he said with twinkling eyes, pulling an indignant teenage hobbit forward into the light. "Fatty, my lad, meet Master Frodo Baggins."

"A pleasure to meet you, Master Fredegar," said Frodo, bowing a second time, and the stubborn scowl on the younger hobbit's face (rounder if possible than his father's) relaxed somewhat.

"Same to you, Master Baggins," said Fatty. He still sounded sulky.

"Oh, call me Frodo. I called you Fredegar, after all. May I call you Fred? I think it would suit you."

"Well, it's a step up from 'Fatty,' said he of that name ungraciously.

Frodo laughed. "Indeed. But I'm so sorry, Mr. Bolger, I have been keeping you waiting on the mat! Come in – I'll call Bilbo."

"So the situation is this." Odovacar Bolger's round face was more worried than ever. "The Sackville-Bagginses claim to have found witnesses to your servant's disorderly behaviour on other occasions, such as when he knocked over Miss Protea Bracegirdle's flower stall. I know," he continued, forestalling Frodo's indignant reply with an upraised hand, "that young Sam has never been anything other than conscientious; the problem is, proving it. Or he may face up to two months in the Lockholes."

"O dear," said Bilbo. "But surely…you're a lawyer…you can do something."

"My dear Bilbo, I am not a wizard. However, I still hope that the case may be resolved in our favour. I just wanted you to be aware of the possible outcomes."

"Understood, my dear sir," said Bilbo, and invited father and son into the dining room for some tea.

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><p><em>Dear Merry,<em>

_I just realised that it has been three days since I received your letter, but I have had much on my mind. I do hope you haven't died of boredom yet. Of course you can come and stay, and there's no need for you to sleep on the doorstep – in fact, I need your help. Sam is in trouble. He walloped Otho S.B. with a saucepan in my defence, and has been convicted for assault, thanks to that vile lawyer who is, I believe, the uncle of our friend Hamer. He faces six weeks in the Lockholes if we don't get him out of there somehow. I know you'll be able to think of something. _

_Frodo_

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><p><em>Dear Frodo, <em>

_I hope you were being sarcastic when you called Hamer our "friend."_

_Coming as soon as I can,_

_Merry_

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><p><em>AN - So, what do you think? :D Please tell me in a review! By the way, the idea of Sam using his saucepan as a weapon - I got it from another LOTR fanfic which I read a long time ago, but which I have been unable to find to reference. So if you are the author of that fic - sorry, and thank you for a good idea :)_

_Also, my dear reviewers, I badly need your help. Obviously in the next chapter Frodo and Merry are going to formulate a daring escape plan. What I can't decide is - should it go well, or should it fall through and there be consequences? Please review with any ideas that you may be willing to share with me - I would greatly appreciate it :) It will be the last or second last chapter before we make a jump in time to when Merry is fifteen or sixteen. (I already have a chapter or so of this second part written.)_

_Another thing - As of the 1st of February, I may be unable to access this website via internet, so I may be forced to go on hiatus. If this happens, rest assured I will be back as soon as I possibly and technologically can! _


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